Winter's Fire
by Rae Himura
Summary: Wilson's failing marriage has left him frozen. House has been so since the infarction. Will they let the fire thaw them, or run away again? Rated for language. SLASH.


**Disclaimer: I don't own the boys or House md. I just borrow them to let them play.  
****This is my baby, but I'm still not sure I got it quite right. Suggestions and criticism would make my world a happy place.**

Damn his subconscious. Damn his instincts, damn his car and damn his best friend. Damn. The building loomed up before the oncologist's path, as if he needed a reminder of where he was going. He hadn't planned on driving the route to House's building. He had just gone. Slammed the door on his screaming wife and started driving. The pull of the car as his foot stroked the gas pedal, the white numbness of his mind as his muscle memory took over and he reveled in the simple physical tasks of driving. It was probably a dangerous sign that he hadn't realized where he was going until he had been forced to stop at a red light. And when the long memorized surroundings filtered into his mind, he'd started cursing. Damn.

None of which stopped him from following his instincts and gliding his car to House's door. Where he parked and turned off the engine, also by memory. It was only then, sitting in a dark car with rain drizzling lightly outside and trying to decide if he really wanted to face his friend, that he allowed himself to think. Another failed marriage was almost certain now. All that remained was the last fight, the last unsolvable problem that would push them over the edge they were walking. Another set of divorce papers, another lawyer's fees, another alimony payment. Another disappointment, another scar, another set of life pieces he was left picking up. Alone.

He shivered, the air from his heater beginning to dissipate as the winter chill slipped in from outside his glass and metal prison. He stared, unseeing, out into the night. No other creature was stupid enough to be out on a rainy November night. Just him and his stupid expectations, his naïve tries at happiness. Physical isolation feeding emotional isolation, he had just reached up for the ignition – ready to drive anywhere just to see another human being – when his cell phone rang out merrily. Scowling at its cheerfulness and shaking his head at himself, he answered with what he hoped would be a normal tone.

"Wilson." Ok, maybe it was more like a rough whisper, but a _normal_ sounding whisper.

"Two guesses. One, you've finally lost it and have resorted to stalking me."

Damn. If it was anyone other than House, they would have been fooled.

"Stalking you?" Yeah, that exasperation sounded more like him.

"Why else would you be sitting in your car right outside my door," he answered in a remarkably calm tone.

"I don't know how I got here," Wilson confessed, his tone dipping into almost inaudible and breaking painfully.

"Well, seeing as you're in the car, I assume you drove," he deadpanned. "But it's possible you've been hanging out with Foreman too long and decided to jack that car."

"The other guess?"

"You'll have to come inside to hear it," he responded, tone bereft of its normal sarcasm or acid. The deep timbre of his voice sent a shiver down Wilson's spine that he quickly repressed. It was just lack of human contact right? The silence on the other end of the line shifted, like the phone was being drawn away from the other man's ear.

"Wait, House, don't-" Wilson started urgently, anxiety knotting his stomach at the thought of the vacuum of loneliness returning. Don't what? Don't hang up? He's only feet away for God's sake. The oncologist held his breath, waiting for the inevitable biting response.

"Come inside, James." No sarcasm, just a gentle command. Had his voice always been that husky?

"Coming," he breathed, the corners of his mouth turning up fractionally when he heard the continued breathing from the other line. The soft _thump, tap_ as the diagnostician paced was more comforting than Wilson would have liked to admit. Shouldering open the door and braving the freezing air outside, he swept up to his friend's door. He couldn't even think of using his key.

"Fine, make the cripple get up," House snarked when the knocking echoed through both sides of the phone. He hung up the phone as he turned the lock, breaking the connection between them for only a moment before the door swung open and re-established it in person. Wilson's phone made it back to his pocket by a miracle of absent-minded luck.

"So," the diagnostician started, nodding his friend in and closing the door gently behind him. "You don't know how you got here, hm? Care to hear the scenario at home as I see-"

He was interrupted as he turned around by Wilson's lips against his. The oncologist pressed him against the wall, forcing him to drop his cane. He felt the other man's hands come up to his waist, but from passion or support he didn't know. All he knew was he was acting on instinct again. The feel of House's mouth on his, of the body pressed against the length of his own, of fingers combing through graying hair, was all the reward he needed to continue.

The moment where the shock should have worn off came and went, and House still hadn't pushed him off. The still vaguely coherent part of his brain realized that was a good sign. But even that part of his brain gave in to pure action and feeling when his friend's lips moved against his, pressing deeper into the kiss and closer to Wilson. The younger man relearned long ago memorized features from a new perspective, taking in every detail of what his friend felt and tasted like. He reveled in the warmth and friction building between them, letting it wash over him and push back the loneliness that had slowly filled him over the last few months.

But then House was leaning back, using his hold on Wilson's hips to push back from the kiss. Getting just enough space to speak, he managed to force out a breathless, "James," before his voice broke in a pause.

The younger man wouldn't meet his eyes, but he made a protesting noise in the back of his throat, distracted from any anxiety by the body he desired still pressed against him, by the feel of his hands sliding down to press against Greg's chest. He noted absently that the heartbeat he could feel through the other man's thin Metallica tee was accelerated.

"We shouldn't …"

"Don't," James pleaded, leaning in to brush his lips across the other man's cheek and down his neck, the stubble sparking against his lips just like he'd imagined – in those rare moments when he'd allowed himself to imagine. He was rewarded with a muffled moan. But when Greg spoke it held a wealth of hurt, barely covered by biting sarcasm.

"I don't want to be your rebound fuck."

He shook his head slowly, meeting the other man's piercing Prussian gaze. "I don't need to fuck you, Greg," he rasped, stumbling over the rarely used personal endearment and the raw need in his voice. "I just need … you." He shivered again, the ghost of that chilling loneliness rearing up in his chest and combating the warmth of contact.

"No, you need a human. You need touch," he bit back, sarcasm bubbling up in his voice like it always did when he needed to hide. "It doesn't matter which particular human it's with. I just happen to be the only one whose house you've memorized the way to."

"Greg …" Wilson knew what this was. He knew the tone of House's voice, knew he was afraid and trying to run. But it still hurt when the older man carefully disentangled himself and fled to a safer distance.

And then the hurt in Wilson's eyes turned to fury. He couldn't do this, not now. He couldn't be the loyal enabler, couldn't watch as House distanced himself from everything real. Not when it was him House was pushing away from. So he stalked after him and invaded his personal space, voice black with anger

"I'm not playing this game tonight. Why are you pushing me away when we both obviously want this?"

"Because I could have just as easily been some needy blond you met at a bar," House whirled on him as he spoke, pinning the other man with a frustrated glare. "You don't want me; you just want some dysfunctional company."

"Well which is it? Am I a whore for human contact or for neediness? Because I'm having trouble keeping up with your excuses."

"My excuses? You're only here now because your marriage is shit. I have no interest in being the regrettable one night stand. Or are you planning on hopping into bed with me every time you and the misses get into a fight?"

The heat of Wilson's anger was deflating as he stepped closer. "House, it's not like that –"

"Oh cut the crap, Wilson. Why the hell else would you be here?" House knew the other man wasn't – couldn't be – interested in a relationship. It was better he ended this now, however messily, before Wilson could find out how much it meant to him.

Wilson turned away, frustration rendering him inarticulate. When he turned back, his voice was loud and acidic. "Oh gee, I don't know. Maybe because _I love you_."

The bottom dropped out of the room. Neither of them made a sound for a full minute.

The gears in House's head sprang to life first, followed closely by a thick rage welling in his chest. How dare Wilson treat him like those women in his life? Telling him what he wanted to hear, trying to make it all better no matter how much of a lie it was. _Using_ him to fulfill whatever screwed up savior's complex he suffered from. House tensed, barely in control.

"Get out." His voice was low, grinding out from the back of his throat. His eyes were steel.

Wilson stared at him for a heartbeat, emotions chasing each other through his eyes. Then he left. The slam of the door echoed in the empty space.

House slumped over onto the couch, throwing his cane at the floor. Frustration drained from his figure and his energy followed. He popped a Vicodin almost without thought – he didn't care how long it had been since the last one. His gaze locked onto empty space and he shivered. When had his heat turned off?

Wilson couldn't have been serious. He couldn't possibly have real feelings for him. Of course the physical attraction was there, had been since they'd first met. But House wasn't sure Wilson could have real feelings for anyone, unless those feelings were tied up in neediness. And if he could, it certainly wouldn't be for House. It was just impossible. Right?

A clicking echoed from across the room, and he didn't quite manage to hide the pain in his expression before he looked up. Wilson let himself in with a burst of cold air and rain.

They said nothing for a moment, looking into and through each other's eyes. Then House moved to stand and Wilson spoke.

"No." He paused, and House almost smiled.

"No, what?"

"No, I'm not going anywhere." He took a breath to continue. But House stood, and they met in the middle before either realized they had moved. They stood a breath apart, not quite touching. Wilson's eyes were fire as he spoke.

"You're not pushing me away tonight. You may not be able to believe me, but I'm tired of running."

House was silent. The younger man was tense with fear. Then something in House's eyes shifted.

"So there's nothing I can do to get rid of you?"

Wilson's relieved laugh just managed to escape before they were pressed together again. Their lips met and the fire returned, searing along frozen nerves. In a matter of seconds, Wilson's jacket was on the floor and House's fingers had found the knot of his tie. As the younger doctor's hands sought the hem of House's shirt, he pushed them backwards to land in a heap on the couch, carefully avoiding the bad leg. They pressed together, soaking in as much contact as possible as they made quick work of the cloth barriers between them.

Nothing fundamental had changed. Wilson was still married. House was still House. Neither of them expected to wake up in a relationship. They couldn't be sure that would ever come. Tomorrow, Wilson would go back to his wife and struggle through the end days of his marriage. Tomorrow, House would pretend this had never happened.

But tonight, Wilson could love him. Tonight, House believed he could be loved.


End file.
